


Phantasmagoria

by pendragonness



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, I'm hardly pretending to have an actual plot here but I miss these guys, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Ragnar is head-over-heels for Athelstan okay, Rutting, and flashbacks, like literal physical hurt, who doesn't love the hurt/comfort/nurture back to health and fall in love trope?, with some pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonness/pseuds/pendragonness
Summary: Pain and murmuring woke Ragnar. The pain was entire.. the murmurs were easier to ignore but more distracting, as Ragnar tried, with bleary eyes, to watch his priest's lips form the soft, unrecognizable words of prayer, steady and repetitive.“Do not try to bring your God here, Athelstan, I think it will be too cold for him. He will not want to come.”-In the haze of his dying moments, Ragnar dwells on one of his fondest memories





	1. Smoke in the Fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly kept the lyrics for 'Unfinished Business' and 'Death' by White Lies up in other tabs while writing this and have mostly been listening to 'Asleep' by The Smiths. It's that kind of mood.
> 
> This is kinda set somewhere in season 4, I guess, as that's the last season I watched, but it's pretty free-form outside of the show's timeline.
> 
> I legit have not watched the show or written for this pairing in almost three years, wish me luck. I wish YOU luck.

_One would always remember personal regrets before death, that was only human. It was natural to wish that things had been better, gone differently - if perhaps a different choice had been made, somewhere in the past.. To act as though any one person had true control of their life. To die was to have the greatest freedom, Ragnar thought. To die was to eliminate regrets, and in this case, to have the final chance to say goodbye. It was to have the opportunity to tell Athelstan just how much he loved him, had always loved him, and would still love him, even if Athelstan was in heaven and Ragnar was nowhere in the Otherworld, denied admittance by any gods for his betrayal to them all._

_Ragnar had never let go of his love for his priest, not once in all the time that had passed._

-

It had been snowing for hours. Soft snow, but it fell heavily, and was relentless. Athelstan kept himself tucked into the well-built, four-cornered tent as best he could, with furs and a small fire to keep him company as he waited.

Ragnar had gone hunting. He was alone, at his own insistence – he knew how much Athelstan disliked snow, even if it hadn't been said, and thought to spare him the discomfort. The two men were supposed to be on a small quest, for visions or superstitious signs, if Athelstan had understood correctly, but in the couple days they'd been alone so far it had mostly consisted of Ragnar hiking up freezing cold rivers and climbing over trees, all the while talking animatedly with his priest. If anyone asked, Athelstan would speculate that Ragnar was taking the severity of such a spiritual journey far too lightly and enjoying his freedom a little too much.

Athelstan struggled to keep his eyes open, the ailing firelight a poor illumination for the pages of Latin he studied. But when the sound of something crashing, heavily, broke the near-quiet of the evening, he leapt to his feet and dropped the text, his nerves flaring. The sound continued, although a little changed – more like shuffling, or trudging, as though a great weight was being drug.

“Ragnar?” Athelstan called, understanding what he heard. The earl had returned with a prize larger than expected and now he attempted to haul whatever great beast by himself. Athelstan pushed the tent's loose flap aside and stepped forward – only to freeze, mid-step.

It was Ragnar making the noise, that much was true, but there was no hunted trophy to be seen. It was entirely the Viking earl, who was now on all fours and struggling to drag himself forward. The crashing sound must have been him falling to the ground. Trailing behind him was a messy wake of blood.

At Athelstan's voice, he looked up, head tilted, squinting through mud and dirty snow caked across his face. Ragnar grunted and panted like a wild animal and forced himself to stand upright again. His body struggled to hold the posture, as he slouched to favour one side of his body and his legs visibly trembled.

“Ragnar!” Athelstan's shout snapped into the eerie quiet of their surroundings. He launched himself forward, just as his companion trudged one step closer and then collapsed, his own weight too much to bear.

-

Pain and murmuring woke Ragnar. The pain was entire, starting with the searing agony of gouged flesh on his thighs, to the incessant ache in his torso, and spreading upward through the quivering, stressed muscles of his arms and shoulders and the tenderness of a swollen face. The murmurs were easier to ignore but also more distracting as Ragnar tried, with bleary eyes, to watch his priest's lips form the soft, unrecognizable words of prayer, steady and repetitive.

“Do not try to bring your God here, Athelstan, I think it will be too cold for him. He will not want to come.” His voice was thick and choked with exhausted delirium, and he frowned at it.

“Ragnar?” Athelstan breathed, ceasing his prayers immediately, and snapping his eyes open to gawk at his friend.

The small man sat next to the fire with his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them as though to hold himself together. Ragnar lay beside him, his body curled around the fire unconsciously, and heaped with furs. Even so, he trembled relentlessly, muscles pushed beyond their limit.

“Yes, I am still here,” Ragnar replied, and flashed his teeth in an arrogant half-grin.

“Barely,” Athelstan retorted. He scrambled closer to the other man, crouching beside him. His blue eyes looked black in the low light and were wide as coins. Ragnar watched the young man's hands flutter nervously, skimming a light touch first at Ragnar's temple, then his torso, his shoulder, and eventually, grasping his forearm.

“I..I don't think you're terribly injured – well I don't know for sure, there was so much blood... but it's the cold, too, the cold and.. how far did you walk like this? How did you..? What happened?” Athelstan had leaned closer as he spoke in frightened whispers and, unconsciously now, he laid his palm tenderly on Ragnar's head. “By God, Ragnar, what happened?”

“It has been too long since I hunted boar, it would seem,” Ragnar's response was dry, slightly irritated. “We had a bit of a tussle.”

“A boar? Jesus Christ.”

Ragnar grinned, a predatory flash of teeth and sparkle of cunning eyes. “Is that not blasphemy?” He clicked his tongue. “You should be more careful.”

“You're hardly one to speak in this situation, Ragnar Lothbrok,” Athelstan scolded, but his face warmed. He removed his hand and swallowed. “What hurts?”

Ragnar huffed a small laugh, but even that caused his face to spasm and his whole body go rigid with pain. He closed his eyes and grunted long and low.

“Everything,” he muttered.

“I'm trying, Ragnar, I am, but I'm not sure what I can do..” Athelstan rambled, his voice scrambling for purchase and surety, “There was so much blood on you and you wouldn't stop shaking, and even now..you're still trembling, oh God-”

“Hush, priest,” the chiding was merely a sigh, but an effective one. Ragnar had not opened his eyes but the lines of stress in his face faded. “You have done as well as you could. My body shook before from cold as well as exhaustion, now you have remedied the cold, and that will help. Did you bind my legs, above the wounds? I can still feel his tusks there...” Ragnar bared his teeth at the memory. “Difficult bastard.. Athelstan?” He opened his eyes again, waiting for a response. “Did you stop the bleeding?”

“Y-yes,” Athelstan stammered, breaking his focus from the other man's animated features. “Yes, I bound the wounds, and cleaned them. And the one in your arm, below the bicep. I..I think a tusk went through there too-”

“And you have wrapped my hands,” Ragnar interrupted calmly, lifting one hand and fluttering his fingers just slightly amidst the rust-colored, bloody bandages.

“Yes, but I fear there is much more than I cannot see or heal – your ribs, they are badly bruised, and your thighs are the same beyond the gouging-”

“Did you undress me completely, priest, in your quest for injuries?” Ragnar's voice was blatantly flirtatious and if there was any way to mistake his insinuation, the wild glimmer in his eyes vanquished it.

Athelstan gawked for a moment, caught off-guard that Ragnar could be in such a state and still tease him so. But then, there was nothing more truly Ragnar than that. He was incorrigible, at best.

Ragnar chuckled before the priest could think of a response, but this laughter was kept deep inside his chest as his eyes grew heavy, lashes struggling to remain open. “Do not be so timid, Athelstan,” Ragnar sighed. “I was only hopeful.”

Athelstan's gaze snapped up, away from where he studied the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around the larger man's left arm, to search Ragnar's face. He found that toothy, daring grin greeting him, but Ragnar's eyes were closed, and the smile faltered as exhaustion pulled him under again.

-

“If it is your prayers that keep waking me up, does that mean they are working?”

Ragnar's teasing made Athelstan jump, so engrossed was he in his task, hands clasped and back aching where he knelt for so long. He recovered quickly, refusing to look at his friend as he stood.

“Perhaps that is one way of seeing it, yes.”

Ragnar made a sound like a purr, ice-blue eyes wild and calculating, staring up at the priest.

“You look terrible,” Athelstan said bluntly, and Ragnar blinked in surprise, losing the intensity of his gaze and giving way to offended confusion.

“You would look worse,” he retorted and Athelstan grinned.

“Yes, I am sure I would.” He knelt beside his friend, who lay on his back now, still close to the ongoing fire. “But truly Ragnar, I do not think this is going well. How do you feel, other than the pain?”

“I don't know,” Ragnar admitted. “Cold. I feel cold in my bones, except for my shoulder-” He shifted to touch a hand to his wounded arm, and hissed in pain, swearing.

“Stop – don't,” Athelstan whispered reprimands, and pulled Ragnar's hand away with his own, feeling the man's fingers tremble with his sickness as he did so. “I stitched your shoulder while you were sleeping. Sort of. I'm afraid I haven't had much practice. It will be an ugly scar.”

“Ugly enough to keep the women away, you think?”

Athelstan ignored the comment. “And the wounds on your thighs, I tried to stitch those too but they were more difficult, there was so much..” he swallowed, clearly fighting repulsion, “The flesh wasn't torn as clearly.”

“You did this while I was asleep?” Ragnar seemed doubtful.

“Trust me, I'm much more impressed than you. Your body must have decided to spare you the experience.” Athelstan leaned closer, and while he still held Ragnar's trembling fingers in one hand, he raised the other to carefully touch the earl's brow, feeling and testing. The man's face was pale and cold, but he had a sheen of sweat about him. His eyes were ringed dark and what blood Athelstan hadn't scrubbed away made him look all the more deathly.

Ragnar's eyes were half-shut and he turned, seemingly instinctively, into Athelstan's touch.

“I am very cold,” he whispered, “but my shoulder...”

“I know,” Athelstan whispered back and he swallowed, finding tears smarting in his eyes as panic started to creep into him. This was not a scenario he'd practiced for, he was not a healer.

“I will clean it with some of my wine, that may help-” he made to move away, but the hand holding his became alive again and gripped him tightly.

“No-” Ragnar snapped, before a shiver coursed through his body. “Stay here for now. It will be alright, I just need sleep.” He closed his eyes for a long moment, took a deep breath that provoked a wince, and then focused his sharp eyes – so calm now, like the skies after a snowstorm – on the young priest.

“Please stay, Athelstan.”

Athelstan nodded, his gaze never wavering from his friend's. His hand rested on Ragnar's forehead again and he let his thumb trace along the man's brow in a soothing, repetitive motion, lulling the sick man back in to sleep that he prayed would be healing.

-

When Athelstan woke, the tent was shrouded in darkness, the untended fire having reduced itself to little more than red-tinged embers. He shivered in anticipation but found he was not terribly cold, not as he should have been. Instead he was tucked against a heated form, which he did not clearly understand until the heavy arm draped over him shifted - now he shivered for an entirely different reason, adrenaline and nerves running chills through his blood.

He had fallen asleep beside the wounded Norseman, his own exhaustion from worry finally becoming too much. He had been loath to break the bond of their hands, and so he had laid down beside Ragnar to rest. Somehow, in the throes of sleep, he became nestled into the crook of Ragnar's arm, his face pressed into the fur blanket at the man's torso, one arm tucked between their bodies while their hands remained interlocked and resting on Ragnar's stomach, the man's free arm wrapped reflexively around Athelstan's smaller shoulders.

Now, awake, the position was unsettling and intimate, beyond the manners of close friendship. Athelstan swallowed, his senses filled with Ragnar's heat and scent, like the earth after rain, tinged with the smoky old smell of the animal furs, and he shivered again. He began to shift and pull away but his movement triggered Ragnar, and the arm around his shoulder squeezed just a little, as if to comfort, and Athelstan felt the man's chin brush his forehead.

The priest's eyes drifted shut as everything inside of him ached for this closeness, this connection after so much time in his life alone. He found an easy comfort in the gentleness of the larger body embracing his, and the soft breath in his hair soothed him to sleep again.

-

When Ragnar woke, what he could only assume to be the dawn light gave a soft, rosy illumination to the cold interior of the shelter, and he let his eyes wander as they adjusted. The body beside him made a soft sound of sleep and he looked down, to see Athelstan curled close against his side, a blanket of his own covering him as he lay in Ragnar's half-embrace.

Ragnar smiled to himself and his blood pumped with pleasure to see Athelstan so close, so at ease. Their hands were still entwined on his stomach and so he raised the hand draped over Athelstan's shoulders to stroke at the young man's dark hair, long, wavy wisps having fallen free of the knotted tie at the base of his neck. There were faint, half-grown-in patterns shaved near the man's temple and behind his ear, where Ragnar's fingers explored idly.

Athelstan grunted softly and buried his face deeper into Ragnar's chest. The larger man took a quick breath at the sensation and clenched his jaw for a moment, then nuzzled into Athelstan's hair, gently resting his chin on the man's head.

After a moment, Athelstan made a sound again and began to fidget a little more in Ragnar's hold, until finally he pulled away far enough to look up at the Norseman that held him, whose fingers still played with the small braids in his black hair.

The men stared at each other for a long moment, as if waiting for the other to say or do something first, neither wanting to be the instigator of a next move.

“Are you alright?”

“May I kiss you?”

Athelstan's words were overwhelmed by Ragnar's polite, rushed request, and they both paused in trepidation.

Ragnar watched the eyes of his companion, the wide blue that grew even wider, the way the pupils dilated just so, the polite tilt of his eyebrows as he processed what had been said. The younger man opened his mouth as though to reply, but under Ragnar's patient, close gaze, his lips closed again. Athelstan stared, his heart thundering so greatly he was sure the other man could feel it. Eventually, under Ragnar's searching eyes that were as bright as lightning, Athelstan, so very barely, tipped his head in a nod.

Eager, hungry lips crashed down as Ragnar surged into the kiss he had been granted. He leaned down and with the hand in Athelstan's hair, pulled the younger man's head back, so he could kiss the man fully despite their awkward positions. His mouth was scorching in its intensity but he did not force anything more than a hungry press of his lips against Athelstan's, his breath washing over the priest's face, his beard brushing the man's cheekbones.

Ragnar pulled Athelstan even closer, ignoring the growing agony in his arms and along his ribs as he gulped into another dry, heavy kiss, his mouth moving passionately against Athelstan's nervous lips.

“Is something wrong?” He whispered after a moment, his lips only centimeters from the other man's, their noses touching. Athelstan shook his head but his eyes were closed and he swallowed, looking for all the world as though he were bracing himself. Ragnar leaned back a little to see better. “Athelstan?” he murmured, and ran his fingers gently down the side of his companion's face.

The priest made a soft sound of contentment, but Ragnar understood – he was too much, too fast, too hungry, and he knew better. So he pressed a soft kiss between Athelstan's brows, letting his lips linger just a moment, and then tucked the young man against him again.

Ragnar sighed, “I am sorry if I-”

“Don't be,” Athelstan interrupted. Ragnar waited for him to explain, but he did not. The young man politely pulled himself out of Ragnar's hold and brushed loose strands of hair away from his face, his eyes downcast and face flushed.

“Your fever has broken. Let me re-dress your bandages.”

Ragnar nodded obediently and gave himself up to be healed.

 


	2. This Fear's Got a Hold On Me

 The fire was awake again, full and crackling and providing substantial heat in the small shelter. Athelstan had fed it well in order to dry what mangled, bloody pieces of Ragnar's clothing might still be saved, and now he used it to boil water for the bandages.

“If you're trying to make me uncomfortable, you've nearly succeeded,” He teased, but didn't look up from his busy hands. He could feel Ragnar's gaze without needing to check – the man was staring, his eyes working like a form of magnetism, and Athelstan wrestled with himself to dismiss it.

“Are you hungry?” Ragnar asked, and the inquisition was surprising enough to make the other man finally look up.

“I hadn't really thought about it. Are you?”

“There is fish in the bag over there,” Ragnar gestured with his chin, his eyes not leaving Athelstan. “And perhaps some bread. I do not know what else. We needed that boar.” His words were hard, irritated.

“Don't get like that,” the priest reprimanded his friend with formality, shooting him a stern look as he picked up the indicated pack of food. He was not about to let Ragnar get sulky. “Do you want any?”

Ragnar shook his head. “I need a drink.”

Athelstan put a small piece of dried fish in his mouth and then dug around to pour some of the boiled water into a horn cup. Ragnar made an obvious face as he accepted the drought but said nothing, drinking the warm water obediently. Athelstan couldn't help but grin after a moment and, shaking his head at himself, handed Ragnar the wineskin.

The Norseman grinned, all teeth and sparkling eyes, and took the liquored drink with much greater enthusiasm. He gulped at it for a moment, then made a slight face again as he handed it back.

“I need beer,” he grumbled, and again Athelstan smiled. His friend was nothing if not habitual.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he replied, and took a drink of his own from the wine.

“You never disappoint, Athelstan,” Ragnar retorted, his tone somehow both teasing and deeply serious. His eyes glimmered with his honesty. Athelstan swallowed and took another piece of fish for himself.

“I should check your arm.”

Ragnar obediently pulled up the sleeve of his injured arm, his scraped hands steady now, and revealed the bandage tied around his bicep.

“There's not much blood anymore,” Athelstan observed. “Good. The stitches are working. I hope the wounds in your legs are the same – I can't imagine you can lose any more blood than you have..”

He spoke idly as he untied the used cloth and replaced it with a clean one, his fingers just barely dancing around the ugly, deep red and purple wound. It had begun to weep fluid in the past couple hours and concern rolled like nausea in his stomach, as he prayed that his ward was not so observant.

“You are good at this,” Ragnar observed quietly.

Athelstan paused. “I'm not - I'm just your only option right now.”

Ragnar smiled.

“How does your chest feel? And your ribs? Can you breathe okay?”

“Yes,” Ragnar lied, “I could stand if my legs were not torn to shreds.”

“I'm not sure I believe you,” Athelstan said fondly, and his friend grinned in reply.

Done with doing what he could for the disaster in Ragnar's arm, the priest ran a hand professionally down Ragnar's left ribs, pressing gently. The man winced with the unexpected investigation, giving himself away.

“Mhm,” Athelstan murmured, moving his hand further, trying to find a place that no longer hurt.

He watched Ragnar's expressive features as he prodded and pried, interpreting the meaning of each wince and bat of eyelashes. Eventually Ragnar's eyes found his and, as happened so often, the connection of the Norseman's gaze with his own was like an intimate strike of lightning, as it trapped him and bared him open. His hand stopped searching and pushing.

Ragnar studied Athelstan, his eyes not taunting or provoking, just waiting, wondering what would come next, accepting whatever it may be.

Athelstan stared for a long moment, letting silence stretch between them so long he hoped Ragnar would let this moment go, that perhaps he would grow bored and impatient, and break this quiet connection.

It didn't happen. Ragnar waited. Adrenaline coursed through Athelstan's blood, triggered by his sudden thoughts and wants, and he could feel his heartbeat thundering across every inch of his skin. It was dangerous to be alone with Ragnar when his faith had been so shaken of late. It was dangerous and foolish of him to have allowed Ragnar to have his way earlier, when he had.... The thought trailed away, Athelstan's personal feelings tangling with his upbringing, colliding with the lifestyle and faith he had been adjusting to for so many months, leaving him reeling and lost and susceptible to his deepest self.

“May I kiss you?” He whispered, echoing the words that were far drier in his mouth than they had been in Ragnar's.

Ragnar merely smiled, a soft, slight glint of teeth, and waited.

Athelstan leaned forward, his palm now flush against Ragnar's torso, fingers spread wide, feeling the expanse of chest rise and fall beneath his touch. His eyes closed when his nose nudged against the other man's and he heard Ragnar inhale in anticipation. The world felt slow in that moment, Athelstan's forehead against Ragnar's, their noses bumping as Ragnar moved, just barely: a soft, nuzzling motion. It made Athelstan tremble.

He tilted his mouth finally, toward and against Ragnar's, and found open lips waiting beneath his touch. There was a rushing, blustery sound in his ears, like a gust of wind that drowned out real sound, and Athelstan couldn't be sure if time was passing or if everything was now in his head.

He tasted the heat of Ragnar's mouth, rich with warm wine, his lips steady and gentle. Ragnar kissed slowly, letting Athelstan breathe and press closer, press his lips more firmly into what he knew he wanted. And then Ragnar's fingers wove once again into the dark tangle of hair at the back of Athelstan's head, and he licked casually into Athelstan's mouth, tongue sliding across his lower lip.

Athelstan made a sound he'd never heard from himself before, something between a moan and a whimper, and whatever it was, it caused Ragnar to sit straighter and lap again into the priest's mouth. Athelstan's fingers ached as he clutched the fabric of Ragnar's shirt. He breathed so heavily he had the fleeting thought it might cause himself damage – but then Ragnar tilted his head a little further, kissed a little deeper, his tongue moving again but slower, with practice and purpose, and Athelstan was no longer breathing at all.

He wanted to gasp, and sigh, and whimper again, and be closer to Ragnar than ever physically possible – wanted to be on him, with him, in him, a part of him. These kisses were unlike any other experience or moment in his life and nothing would ever reach a deeper part of his soul than this.

And with such a thought, Athelstan took his lips away from his companion's, gasping shakily, keeping his eyes downcast as he realized his great dissent. Many things had passed in the days and weeks and months upon months that he had lived with Ragnar and his people. There had been plenty of doubt and questioning and revelations about himself, but this – this moment – was something different altogether. It was, perhaps, too far.

Ragnar kissed at his neck now, a warm, tender press of his lips against Athelstan's slowing pulse, the man's beard tickling the priest's collarbone. He shivered at both sensations, and trembled doubly at his thoughts. By God, the way Ragnar held him must be something divine. The way Ragnar looked at him certainly was. And now, the way Ragnar cradled the younger man's jaw in his hands, as he kissed once at his forehead, and then his mouth again, his tongue slow and sensual against Athelstan's - Athelstan had never felt so blessed.

His fingers slipped away from their grip on the Norseman's clothing, to touch the hot flesh at the plunging shirt collar. Ragnar pressed closer to him, to both men's satisfaction. Athelstan let his hand run across his friend's chest, feeling the warm skin, ridged sporadically with scars, as though it was wholly unknown to him. After a moment, he scrabbled to reach his hands underneath the bottom of Ragnar's shirt entirely, too restricted otherwise.

Athelstan ran his hands eagerly up the larger man's torso as Ragnar finally kissed him harder, hard enough to let teeth skim the tender flesh of a lip. Athelstan made that sound again, and surged forward, his own tongue playing against Ragnar's challenge.

Ragnar made a sound now, but it was not the same – he grunted, only for a second, as though he cut himself off before the sound could be completed. But Athelstan still noticed, and even if he hadn't, there was no way he could have ignored the sudden, spasmic tensing of Ragnar's body under his hands – hands which had pushed too hard on one of the many wrong places amidst Ragnar's flesh.

“Oh God-” Athelstan bit out the words, alarmed and horrified at his lack of control, in all manners. He rocked back, pulling sharply out of Ragnar's hold.

“Don't,” Ragnar urged, “I am fine, just sore-”

“You're barely able to keep conscious after what happened – it's been hardly more than a day-”

“Do not exaggerate, Athelstan,” Ragnar chided, and his face was petulantly serious. “Come back.” He held out a hand.

Athelstan hesitated. “I wasn't thinking.”

“I'm pleased,” Ragnar smirked.

“No, I mean-” Athelstan faltered, his voice lower, more serious now. He tried to read himself as he delayed his next move, tried to interpret everything inside him at that moment. Ragnar watched him with the hunger of curiosity and fascination. Ragnar was fascinated by everything his priest did.

“I wasn't thinking,” Athelstan repeated after a moment. He drug himself a little further from his friend's reach, watched as Ragnar's curious eyes noted the movement, watched as Ragnar's pristine face twitched just the slightest with his own interpretation of Athelstan's clearer refusal.

“You weren't thinking of your God, you mean?” Ragnar asked. Athelstan didn't believe the man meant his tone to be so cruel, it was just an effect of his disappointment.

“Yes,” he replied softly, “That's exactly what I mean.”

Ragnar sighed and finally dropped the hand he had extended toward Athelstan. “And what are you thinking now?”

The priest did not dare repeat his thoughts even to himself. He was not bold enough for that, he was not as strong and sure as his Norse friend.

“I am thinking that I wanted to comfort a friend in whatever means I could find. But I should have been more aware of the limitations within myself, even when it comes to the care of others.”

Intelligent eyes bright as lightning bolts seared into him. He could not tell if Ragnar believed his dismissal, or saw straight through it instead. He did not know what either answer would mean. A shiver ran up his spine.

Ragnar blinked and dropped the stare; his face relaxed into a purposefully uninterested demeanor, shielding whatever response he might have had to Athelstan's claim.

“Please pass me the wine, Athelstan,” he said, nonchalant as ever. “I need something to help me ease the pain in my legs.”

Athelstan handed over the drought, and Ragnar did not speak to him again before returning to a restless, painful sleep. 

-

Ragnar was jolted awake by a sound at the door of the shelter, but it was only Athelstan disturbing the silence of the desolate camp. The priest paused when he noticed Ragnar's alarm, then smiled gently and continued his way into the hut.

“What are you doing?” Ragnar asked, his voice slow and sleepy. He sat up without discomfort.

“Enjoying the air outside of this little room,” Athelstan teased. “You should try it.”

“I will very soon,” Ragnar assured him, and his tone held intent. He was uncomfortable in his invalidity, ready to move and function again. “You are not cold?” He asked, as Athelstan drew closer and knelt beside him to carefully prod the wound on his arm again.

“Not unpleasantly, no.” Athelstan replied with another soft smile.

His blue eyes shone like gems, highlighted by the dramatic cold that flushed his cheekbones and nose bright pink, while washing out the rest of his color. Impulsively, Ragnar reached out to touch Athelstan's face, curious if he felt as cold and crisp as he looked. But the young man's skin was in fact warm, and already he was regaining color under Ragnar's palm against his cheek.

Athelstan did not recoil at the man's boldness but rather he paused his own movement, and closed his eyes for a long breath, so very long, his face pressing into Ragnar's touch as though he needed it. Ragnar watched Athelstan's chest rise and fall steadily, deeply, and noticed they breathed in time with one another.

Ragnar drug his thumb across Athelstan's bottom lip and sighed his name. His own desperate hunger threatened to devour him.

“Yes,” Athelstan whispered. Ragnar wasn't sure he understood the simple word. His touch faltered, considering pulling away, but then Athelstan's eyes half-opened, dazed and intoxicated with his own feeling, and he repeated, “Yes.”

Before Ragnar could verbalize his hesitation, Athelstan leaned forward and kissed him, hard.

This time, it was like being thrown under a wave: unstoppable, uncontrollable, something far bigger and more powerful than one's self, and it drug them both down. Ragnar grabbed Athelstan's face in both hands, his palms framing the man's curved jaw, fingertips beneath his hair. Athelstan pulled at the heavy shirt he wore, then ran a hand up his throat, to curve around his neck.

Ragnar did not play and behave now – he shoved his mouth, shoved his tongue, against Athelstan's, tasting and devouring as much as he could before it might be taken away. Athelstan licked back at him, sending shivers up Ragnar's spine, and groaned explicitly into his mouth.

With a quick, almost unnoticed shift, Athelstan transferred himself to Ragnar's lap, his legs straddling either side of the larger man's waist, his pelvis just the right amount of pressure against Ragnar's.

The Norseman grunted with surprise, but not pain, his wounds seemingly just enough out of the way of Athelstan's weight as the smaller man rocked his hips forward, sending bursts of pleasure like sparks through Ragnar's system.

“Now this,” Ragnar panted, pulling his mouth away from Athelstan's for a moment, gazing hungrily into the man's eyes, “is not something I expected.”

Athelstan stared at him in return, his own clear eyes finally matching intensity, no longer the image of serene timidity he so often seemed to be. “You've wanted this since you found me,” he challenged.

“Yes.” Ragnar's reply was immediate, blunt, unashamed. “Yes, I have.”

“How have you wanted me, Ragnar Lothbrok?” Athelstan's voice lowered to a smooth whisper, his breath flowing into Ragnar's mouth as he nuzzled their foreheads together, running his hands across the man's shoulders.

Ragnar swallowed, ravenous, excited, overwhelmed. “Willing,” he murmured, and almost thought he could blush, that that should be the first word in his mind. Athelstan's smile was soft as he kissed the corner of Ragnar's mouth. “Willing, eager – as eager as I have been, all this time.” Athelstan started to pull at Ragnar's shirt and he grunted with discomfort, but did his best to assist, as they both fumbled to get the cloth over his head.

It felt like his skin was scorching, bared in the low fire and cool evening air. Athelstan pulled his own tunic over his head with much greater ease and Ragnar shifted at the pressure in his lap, against his cock. His stomach was tight with want and he knew he watched Athelstan like a wolf, all bright, eager eyes and a hungry mouth.

“I've wanted you to want _me_ , Athelstan,” he finally admitted, the words barely making a sound.

The priest paused. He stared at his companion for a long moment, still, as he understood everything else Ragnar meant that wasn't being said. He caressed Ragnar's face, the wiry beard, the short buzz of hair, he traced the dark tattoos around his scalp, and then he kissed him again.

Ragnar had his hands around Athelstan, the pale skin beneath his hands finally able to feel sensual beneath his fingertips, in a way he had so many times denied himself. He touched and held and caressed every inch of flesh, desperate to never be separated from these moments, until Athelstan carefully pushed him away.

“With your injuries, Ragnar...” Athelstan started his sentence and then hesitated, unsure how to press his concerns. But Ragnar was ahead of him.

“I can show you. But first...stand up,” he instructed, voice soft.

Athelstan obeyed, dismounting from his seat upon Ragnar's hips in a smooth motion, with a careful ease, his pelvis now at an appropriate height with Ragnar's forehead. He swallowed and a shaky breath escaped him, finally showing a little of the nerves his friend had been waiting for.

Ragnar smiled to himself, both touched and pleased, his own nerves thrumming in his chest and to his fingertips. He unlaced Athelstan's trousers and slipped his hands down the back of them, fingers curving into the man's bum as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just beneath his belly. Athelstan made a heaving sound in surprise, and Ragnar didn't give him time to recover before pulling the pants down completely, stripping the man entirely naked.

Kisses were scattered around the tight, pale skin of Athelstan's abdomen, and lower, Ragnar's chin and lips nuzzling into dark hair as his hands kneaded and caressed faintly trembling white thighs.

Athelstan barely swallowed his own yelp, cutting it sharply in half, as Ragnar's mouth swept over his cock – hot, wet, and sure, a sensation that made his bum clench beneath the Norseman's hands and caused deep sounds to break in both men's chests.

Ragnar listened contentedly – delightedly – as he steadily worked his mouth around Athelstan's length, soaking in each sigh and hitched breath, feeling them like sparks of lightning through his body. The priest's skin was heating up beneath his attentions, and at one particular move of his tongue on the underside of the cock in his mouth, the younger man's hips juttered. Fingers brushed across his short hair, scrabbling feebly for a sense of control, and Ragnar hummed with contentment. He'd thought of this in a number of ways before, but his imagination was surpassed by the pure satisfaction of reality.

He had the taste of Athelstan's mouth and cock on his own tongue, the sensation of Athelstan's body pressed against his, heard his name sighed and mumbled from Athelstan's delicate lips: Ragnar's head was swimming like as if in fever, overwhelmed, blissful. He felt no pain from his wounds now, how could he, amidst so much pleasure? He felt only the weight in his mouth, the length down his tongue, near his throat, combined with a salty, musky taste he reveled in.

Athelstan whimpered his name again, and Ragnar made a muffled sound of amusement at the raised pitch of the younger man's voice. Athelstan's fingers dug into his shoulder at the sensation.

“I'm- I can't- Rag..Ragnar, I'm so close..” Athelstan panted his words, the muscles of his legs tight as iron beneath Ragnar's touch, signaling how desperately he was holding back.

Ragnar pulled his mouth away slowly, letting the hyper-sensitive member slide across his tongue and drag past his lips. Athelstan heaved, looking down at him with dark eyes. Ragnar stared back, expression muted, waiting.

“Tell me what you want,” Athelstan said, voice soft, warm.

Ragnar fought not to tremble at the implication. “Help me out of these damned trousers,” he offered, fidgeting as he did so.

Athelstan smiled and lowered himself back to his knees, drawing back from Ragnar – who watched him like a starving predator, sharp eyes glittering and wild, pupils overblown with his lust. The priest had little difficulty tugging Ragnar's bottoms away, careful of the wounds that Ragnar refused to look at, refused to acknowledge as existing. He spread his legs instead and laid back entirely, shoulders flat against the cool wool blankets beneath him. With a deep breath to attempt to tamper his own arousal, Athelstan knelt between Ragnar's thighs. He leaned over Ragnar carefully, not quite letting their bodies touch, and nuzzled his nose against Ragnar's cheekbone.

“You are unbelievable,” he sighed, and let his hands brush teasingly across the hard, scarred and battered body beneath him, enjoying every ridge and muscle he could find.

“Mmm, I might have heard that before,” Ragnar teased, his smile taunting and arrogant, so familiar.

Athelstan grinned in return and passed a glance down his body. “You're beautiful – have you heard that? You're so...beautiful,” He whispered, and finally he kissed Ragnar again, mouth hungry and full of want, full of promise. Ragnar ached.

The smaller man carefully settled his weight atop his companion, chests together, stomachs moving with each other's unsteady breaths, his thighs snug against the inside of Ragnar's, feeling the muscles quiver and tense, and their equally ready cocks lay hot and wet against each other's abdomens.

Ragnar made a breathy, thunderous sound at the sensation, curving his spine up to press closer to Athelstan, who squirmed at the bolt of sensation.

“My God,” he breathed, his voice distant and wavering.

Ragnar ran a hand through Athelstan's dark hair in a gesture of tenderness - perhaps also a form of reassurance. He lifted his hips again, forcing their bodies closer, and felt Athelstan's tongue press desperately into his mouth. The younger man laid his hands on the floor beside Ragnar's head, bracing himself, then thrust gently with his hips, once, dragging his cock against Ragnar's.

“ _Fuck_ -” Ragnar gasped, tearing his focus away from plundering Athelstan's mouth, and found himself laughed at. He panted in response and let a smirk find it's way to his face. “Now you know what I want,” he chuckled, and then was interrupted by his own soft gasp and grunt of pleasure, as Athelstan repeated the movement.

An unsteady rhythm began – Athelstan rocking his hips against Ragnar's, the tops of his thighs thumping into the other man's hamstrings, Ragnar's hips tilted upwards and into the movement, just a small addition of pressure and friction that made Athelstan huff and begin to shake.

The priest's body was strong, much stronger than it had been in his life before, Ragnar knew, but he was careful with it now, aware of Ragnar's injuries and weakness. And Ragnar was frustrated, in no small manner.

The Norseman grabbed Athelstan by the back of neck and pulled him down into a kiss, a hard kiss, his tongue immediately prominent and sloppy and greedy as his hips jumped up aggressively, forcing a stab of overwhelming pressure where their bodies rutted together. Ragnar drug his teeth against Athelstan's bottom lip, licked languidly at the mark, and then mouthed at the man's throat. His breath came in hot, noisy pants against the pale skin, and he could see just over Athelstan's shoulder at the muscled movement of his lover's back and hips and ass, less rhythmic and steady than before.

“More, priest,” he whispered, teasing, “you can do more, I know you can.”

Athelstan grunted as Ragnar dragged dull nails down the length of his ribcage, to land in a grip on his hip and pull him sharply into him, forcing a harder thrust. Flesh against flesh made a heavy, carnal sound.

“Ragnar, I..”

“Shh,” Ragnar purred. “You couldn't hurt me if you tried.” He pulled on Athelstan's hip again, forcing the impact, grinding their cocks between muscled stomachs, and sending spasms of pleasure through each of their bodies.

Finally Athelstan obeyed and repeated the firmer movement of his own volition, bracing himself on a forearm beside Ragnar's shoulder and heaving with his slight hips.

To Ragnar's satisfaction, the younger man also picked up the pace and the harsh slap of their bodies taunted the guttural sighs and grunts trying to escape their mouths. Athelstan's voice hitched up and he ducked his head, struggling to hold on to some sense of control. Without a word, Ragnar ran his free hand through the man's dark hair, tenderly urging him to meet Ragnar's gaze.

Athelstan struggled, embarrassed, but Ragnar would not let him experience the oncoming moment privately – he had hungered for this for much too long. He forced Athelstan to face him, pristine face now flushed with sexuality and rampant arousal, lips red, eyes wild and unfocused. Ragnar kissed him again, his mouth against Athelstan's soft keening breathing, and when his tongue licked languidly at the man's lips, he felt every inch of the body above his tense, halt, and then spasm. Athelstan heaved a fractured cry of pleasure against his lips as he came, hot and erratic and passionate, his body seizing around Ragnar.

It was through Athelstan's pure and unbridled sounds of satisfaction that Ragnar found himself relinquishing control too – his body tensed as Athelstan's spent one shook above him, and he arched his back, a groan rumbling through his chest as he pressed his cock closer to the gently pulsing muscles of Athelstan's stomach. His hips twitched, he made one small desperate sound, and his climax came like the relief of a passing flood, clearing his head and stealing his breath, leaving him weak and aimless in the wake of it.

He panted as Athelstan's body rested atop him, still no pain, only a blinding sense of bliss and contentment. Athelstan still attempted to lay carefully, his head tucked against Ragnar's chest, stomachs hot and wet together and soon to be a mess - when they could bother to acknowledge it. But Ragnar closed his eyes for the time being, letting his breath slow, feeling the heat of the other man's body and living through the moment while he had it.

“Ragnar?” Athelstan's voice was soft, distant.

He did not respond, too tired, too warm, his body weak and spent.

“Ragnar-”

He grumbled something now, not ready to move and have this happiness taken away from him. He was already less comfortable than just moments ago – now his body felt the exertion, the oncoming pain of his provoked wounds, and it was creeping through him with alarming rapidity. Something inside him threatened to panic.

“Ragnar-”

Ragnar blinked with irritation and discomfort, struggling to clear away Athelstan's pestering voice.

He was too hot now – not from the heat of Athelstan's body, but from his own; it was a savage, internal heat and it turned his stomach.

“Athelstan?” He mumbled, and the words were heavier than expected.

As Ragnar's vision cleared, the peace in his chest dissipated with growing awareness: Athelstan was not laying on him or beside him but was kneeling, as Ragnar lay on his back in a feverish sweat, his wounded arm feeling like fire and nausea in his gut. Only his shirt was removed, revealing the sweat across his trembling, beaten body, while Athelstan was fully clothed.

“Have I-” Ragnar started, then hesitated. He blinked slowly, struggling to make the discomfort in his entire body become bearable. “What happened?”

Athelstan gazed down at him, confused, vaguely frightened. “How do you mean?”

Ragnar knew exactly, but still he forced the question: “I have been dreaming?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Athelstan replied. His lovely face was close, close enough that Ragnar could see, despite his wavering vision, deep creases of concern in the man's brow and around his eyes. “You're very sick, Ragnar. Your shoulder is fighting an infection – Ragnar?”

Athelstan's voice lilted in greater concern at Ragnar's smile, a cruel grin amidst shivering and sweating. But Ragnar did not explain, how could he? Would he dare admit to Athelstan what fantasy had just played out in his fever-dream? Would he describe to Athelstan what their bodies had done, how their voices had sounded - all imagined? Could he dare try to make Athelstan understand how cruel it felt, to realize none of what had just passed had ever occurred at all? And it left Ragnar aching, in a different way than his pain and sickness did.

“You're a very good friend, Athelstan..” Ragnar mumbled, with eyes half-closed from exhaustion and voice sloppy with delirium. He fumbled with a hand at the young man's knee, and Athelstan understood, catching the hand in his own and clutching it tightly.

“I care about you Ragnar,” he replied, voice soft, soothing. “You know I do. I wish I could-” He stopped himself, and after a moment, decided not to continue. He adjusted his grip on Ragnar's hand and Ragnar tried to recall how he had imagined that hand felt on his skin, against his chest, on his hip.

“I'm here for you all the same,” Athelstan finished, as he avoided words he could not speak, avoided something deeper he could not express.

No, Ragnar realized, through the agonizing haze of infection. No, he could not explain to Athelstan what he had happened, what he now understood he would forever be deprived of, and he would never try.

-

The illness would pass. Ragnar would spend many more hours in and out of a feverish haze, the wound in his arm would weep and become uglier, but it would all pass. And only a couple days later, the relentless earl would be back on his feet – feebly, with Athelstan at his side, they would make way back to their home.

Athelstan would catch Ragnar looking at him sometimes – but then, that was not so new. Ragnar would also catch Athelstan looking at him. They would smile, something wistful would pass between them both, and yet silently it had been agreed, since that one delicate time Athelstan had let himself give in to his want for Ragnar for just a moment, that it would not occur again. Or perhaps Ragnar was just a coward, and he had never tried, never asked again. Maybe there was still an opportunity there all along and he never knew. After those days he never asked for more from his priest than a soft look or lingering touch, and before he knew it, even those were taken away from him entirely.

-

_Athelstan loved him too, Ragnar knew this. He'd known it before they'd first kissed, been positive about it in every glance they exchanged, knew it when he lay fighting against death in that ridiculous tent, dreaming of a closeness they would never share._

_What he would have given for the brief, false sensation of holding Athelstan in his arms, bare body to bare body, soft and vulnerable with each other, quiet and in the deepest state of peace for them both – no, he would never have that. Such true happiness had never been his fate. Ragnar's gods had betrayed him because he loved a human being more than he loved them, and he paid the ultimate price. Now, though, he had a choice again. A choice that could return him to Athelstan, even if only for a moment._

_Ragnar regretted only having loved Athelstan so briefly. He did not regret internalizing it for so long, or restraining it so greatly after their shared privacy for those few days ended, or that it had been so fruitless. He only regretted that it had not gone on forever. The memories of the dream in the woods never faded and never let him be, and as he saw Athelstan again in all his beauty before him, amidst the shadows and the fading light of the living world, Ragnar knew the memories had never left either of them._


End file.
